My Grandma

Evelyn I. Murphy passed from this life to the next on 3/19/90. It is hard to believe it has been almost 19 years since she left. I have spent more of my life without her physical presence than I did with her physically present in my life. She was not able to be here for my confirmation in the Catholic Church at 19. She was not here for my wedding at 21, or the births of my sons at 22 and 23. However, there is a piece of her that will always be with me, no matter where I am or what I do.

Both of my parents were born, baptized, confirmed and married as Catholics. They left the Catholic Church when I was 8, immediately before I would have received my first communion. They joined the Methodist Church within a year of their departure from the Catholic Church and, as their daughter, I went with them. I was confirmed as a Methodist when I was in 7th grade. There is a picture of two of us, in front of my mother's flower garden, that day. She was telling me she would be with me again when I was confirmed the next time, in the right Church. It was many years later before I ever told anyone that story. I am pretty sure my mother would have been less than pleased by my grandmother's interference. Ultimately, it wasn't my grandmother's decision to make.

God led me back, officially, to the Catholic Church when I was a senior in High School. I was confirmed when I was a freshman in college. I felt like I had finally come home.

Most of Grandma's religious effects have come to me, since I am the only Catholic left. None of her children are Catholic. I am the only one of their children who is Catholic. I have her prayer cards, her rosary, her missile. Today, as we were re-assembling our living room post remodeling, I opened her missile. After nineteen years, it still smells like her.

I miss her so much right now I physically ache. I have an empty feeling in my chest, where my heart is. I am not sure why it is hitting so hard today. In the past, I have opened it deliberately, just to breathe in the smell of her, and remember: to remember the sound of her laugh, the praying hands on her dresser, the clip on earrings she wore, the way she hugged. Today, I wish I could talk to her. Today, I wish I could ask her advice and get her feedback. Today, I wish I had older family members who were Catholic, who I could discuss parenting questions and joys with, but my parents are not Catholic. They would not appreciate some of the stories I have to share the same way another Catholic would.

I miss you, Dun Grandma.